The Affable Entrepreneur Part One
by DangerRanger5
Summary: A quick journey through Bowerstone with Mister Sparrow turns ugly. Is it wrong to profit from your heroic deeds? What if your heroic deeds were only for profit?


The Affable Entrepreneur

(Part One)

by Michael Grainger

As requested, I met Mister Sparrow just after nine o'clock in the morning, as the sun was still on the rise above the glistening rooftops of Bowerstone. The thatch and tile houses spoke nothing of the glorious splendour of our burgeoning city, a city on the rise with no small thanks to Mister Sparrow, a man of outstanding courage and fortitude. A man who was not only a worldly adventurer but also a shrewd business man.

It was in this latter respect that I called on Mister Sparrow that morn, rather than his former career as an explorer and occasional treasure hunter. I had heard many rumours of his feats, not least amongst them being a champion of the Crucible. I myself had witnessed the Crucible only once and that as a youngster when my late father took me to witness Rick the Saw attempt his third consecutive run through the arena. I need not bore you with the details of that attempt, but suffice to say it was an altogether unpleasant experience and I do not fault Mister Sparrow one bit for having bested the thing once, and only once.

I knocked on the door of the stately Fairfax home and was received politely by a rather dour looking manservant. I had to wait only a few moments before Mister Sparrow arrived. And what an arrival. Whenever he entered the room, Mister Sparrow seemed to bring a whole army and yet stood alone amongst them. He was large, larger than I by at least a head and a half. He was broad too and seemed to exude a presence which made many self-consciously step backwards as if unable to fully comprehend his majesty except from a distance.

Though certainly not my first meeting with the former-adventurer, I still found myself in awe of the man. As ever he was impeccably dressed in the finest of coats and shirts, as always at the height of fashion. I have no doubt that Missus Sparrow was behind Mister Sparrow's excellent taste in clothing, a noted connoisseur of fashion herself and patron to many artists (with Mister Sparrow's financial aid, of course).

"Right, Mister Watts, shall we proceed?" he said without preamble, and shortly we were off towards the Market.

Mister Sparrow led me to the thriving centre of Bowerstone, near the docks, where as well as being something of a celebrity, Mister Sparrow was also the chief landlord. There were few houses or businesses which Mister Sparrow did not own wholly or control in some other way, and Bowerstone Market was not nearly the limit of his commercial reach.

We travelled to a number of the businesses, speaking with the people in charge about the state of the economy, the steady rise of prices in the last few years, and the weather in general. Mister Sparrow always made a point to be cordial and polite to those who worked for him, and no matter how many people he had under him he never seemed to lose track of a single name, nor at least one defining feature of a person's character.

But Mister Sparrow was a business man all the same. We had some unpleasantness speaking with the owner of a local produce stall, a dreadful woman by the name of Claudia something-a-rather who also leased a house from Mister Sparrow. Claudia seemed to be getting behind on her rent, and Mister Sparrow told her no uncertain terms that he would have to evict her if she could not pay up. The woman went into hysterics about Mister Sparrow's lack of pity, and his charade of friendliness when in fact he was the source of the rising prices.

She spat out all sorts of foul rumours about Mister Sparrow who quite calmly took these insults and bid her good day.

We later made our way towards the Cow and Corset and though affable enough towards those who stopped him to shake his hand or bid him good day, I could tell that Mister Sparrow had been largely disturbed by the distraught woman's diatribe.

"It's been on again off again since that night, those years ago" he said to me suddenly as we moved down a cluttered little street. "When I burnt down the Nickname's warehouse and ended the Society's influence here. I've done marvellous things, Mister Watts, and I don't feel too abashed about saying so. But there's been a few, a vocal few albeit, who still claim I was profiteering. Still think I was letting real estate prices go down whilst the city rotted. But I told them before, and I'll tell them again; if there was anything I thought I could have done, I would have. It wasn't until it all came to a head, that night, that it became so clear."

"They like to think you're something much more than you are, sir" I told him, trying to be helpful. "They want you to be a hero, and they can't stand that, whilst rather extraordinary, your simply aren't a hero."

But rather than set him in a good mood and cheer him up, my earnest comment seemed to send him further into a black mood. If only we'd reach the tavern sooner rather than later, I thought privately. That always cheered him up.

I didn't notice it until it was too late, but Mister Sparrow seemed to see it coming. From a side-alley ahead of us, a ragged looking man emerged. Something was off about him, Mister Sparrow later commented to me. Something the man exuded which gave him away. He raised his pistol and screamed aloud; "Got the time for us now, hero!" He fired, but Mister Sparrow had already swayed to the side and the bullet sizzle between us harmlessly striking a wall and bouncing away.

Whilst I rather pathetically held my hands up to ward off further attacks, Mister Sparrow dashed forward and began to wrestle with the wretched looking man. They struggled violently for a few moments, but it became clear quite soon that Mister Sparrow had indeed taken the upper hand. Being of greater physical strength than the half-starved, would-be assassin, it took Mister Sparrow only a modicum of effort to turn the assassin's gun against him.

There was a flash of light and a resounding crack which echoed off the walls of the alley like a volley of shots fired one after another. Slowly the man dropped to the ground, a gaping red hole in his side and a look on anguish on his face. Mister Sparrow stood above him, the smoking gun still in his hand. The man clutched at his side with one hand and clawed and his killer's knee with the other, as if still feebly trying to attack, or to cling onto life. "Bastard" he gasped. "Bastard, just one more....one more amongst the foundations..."

He quite suddenly became still as if there had never been life within him. It was only then that I became aware of the awful smell of cordite and gunpowder, an acrid smell which worked its way up into my nostrils and refused to dislodge itself. And with it, it brought the other smells of the alley; the decaying rubbish, the human waste and filth, and above all the bitter smell of blood from the pool now forming around the small looking fellow at Mister Sparrow's feet.

Mister Sparrow handed me a scented handkerchief which I gratefully held under my nose, though I still fancied I could smell the stench of death and violence all about me.

"I do apologise, old boy" Mister Sparrow said, not turning to look at me as he spoke "But I feel my appetite has been quite spoiled, and I no longer fancy a trip to the pub." I shook my head, unable to speak.

To be Continued...


End file.
